


don't come too close, I'll eat your heart

by ThatGirlTheyKnow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail is so messed up in the head, Abigail's POV, Alanagail?, Blobbs?, Disturbing Themes, F/F, I like Blobbs, One-Sided Relationship, Sex Dreams, Sexual Content, What's the ship name for this?, the poor girl, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatGirlTheyKnow/pseuds/ThatGirlTheyKnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“There,” her father says, eyes finally trained on one spot on the opposite side of the room. A figure sits with her back to them, dark hair flowing down her back. The figure turns, as if feeling their gazes, and Abigail’s eyes meet Alana Bloom’s.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p>“Abigail, are you okay? You haven’t looked me in the eyes all day. Did something happen?”</p><p>"Just... just some pretty bad dreams."</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't come too close, I'll eat your heart

**Author's Note:**

> So this is one of those stories that comes to you and you can't get up, move, rest, do anything until it's out of your system. I don't even know where it came from... I just... wrote.  
> And um, this is the first time I've written any sex scenes (even though I'm not even sure I'd count these are sex scenes) so... eep. 
> 
> In conclusion: I don't know what I'm doing.
> 
> OH, and bold is Abigail's diary, and italics is a dream.

Abigail thinks Alana Bloom is a very beautiful woman. When they first meet, she can appreciate Dr Bloom’s blemish-free pale skin and dark hair, her soft lips and kind eyes that looked at Abigail with sympathy but never pity. She can appreciate Alana’s professional, confident elegance.

Abigail thinks Alana Bloom is a very kind woman. Dr Bloom treats her like an adult and never patronises her, or looks down on her, or treats her like a fragile flower. She treats Abigail with the exact amount of care that she needs. Abigail appreciates that, too.

_\---_

_She’s sitting in a large, noisy cafe, nursing a cappuccino. She’s controlling the shaking in her hands. Her father is sitting across from her, his own drink left forgotten as he pretends not to stare around the room. His hands are clenched into fists on the table. Abigail thinks she wants to cry._

_“There,” her father says, eyes finally trained on one spot on the opposite side of the room. A figure sits with her back to them, dark hair flowing down her back. The figure turns, as if feeling their gazes, and Abigail’s eyes meet Alana Bloom’s._

_Abigail gasps, and Alana gives her a friendly smile._

_“Now,” her father says. Abigail’s eyes snap back to him, wide and horrified. He nods sharply to Alana, and Abigail lets out a small, tortured moan. She gets up, and approaches Dr Bloom._

\---

“How have your nightmares been going, Abigail? Has anything stood out to you?”

“Not really. Just my father, killing those girls.”

\---

Abigail’s sessions with Alana Bloom become the highlight of her week, an escape from the ever-staring nurses and the other patients who won’t even look at her. She’s a cannibal and the daughter of a serial killer and nobody wants anything to do with her.

Nobody except Dr Bloom, who brings her clothes and music to listen to and books to read and seems to care about her _not_ rotting away in here, forgotten.

“How are you being treated here, Abigail? I know you’re not happy, but are there times when you’re content?”

“I’m treated like what I am; the daughter of a murderer. The other patients don’t like to talk to me, let alone look me in the eye. Like they’ll catch something from me, like I have some terrible disease. The nurses have to be nice to me, but they’re afraid, too. They try to hide it, but they can’t. I can see it. But aside from that, yes, there are times when I feel content.”

_\---_

_Alana Bloom is laid out naked on the bench in her father’s cabin. Her pale skin is almost translucent in the moonlight that shines through the small window, and she is breathtakingly beautiful with her dark hair fanned out around her like a halo._

_Her eyes go wide when Abigail approaches, hunting knife in hand. Abigail tries to apologise with her eyes, and two sets of bright, clear blue lock on each other as Abigail’s father comes up behind her and guides her hand._

_Alana’s dark lips open with a soft plea of, “Please, Abigail,” but the girl can do nothing as her knife breaks Alana’s skin, marks the smooth expanse of flawless white with deep, deep red._

_“I’m sorry,” Abigail tries to whisper, but her father hushes her._

_“We’re going to honour her, Abigail. Every part of her. You don’t have to apologise. This isn’t murder.”_

_Abigail cries as her hand cuts Alana Bloom open and the life-filled blood gushes warm onto her hands._

\---

Abigail writes and draws in her journal most of the time, filling up the pages’ lines with thoughts and sketches and stories. It’s supposed to be a therapy tool but she doesn’t know if it’s working, or if she’s using it properly. She writes about her group sessions and how much she hates them, and she writes about her walks in the garden and how she never feels truly alone, always being watched over by some invisible eyes that are tracking her every move. She writes about Hannibal and Will’s visits, what she sees in the men ( _an unstable, awkward man who sees too much of people and is paying the price for it_ and _a shadowed enigma who keeps so many secrets and only allows select parts of his true self to show at strategic times_ ) ( _a man who cares for out of misguided responsibility_ and _a man who cares for her out of **something else**_ ). She writes about her visits with Freddie Lounds and her burning desire to have her story told properly. How she wants to shout her innocence from the rooftops and scream it in the streets. How she wants her secret to be kept a secret.

Mostly, though, she writes about Alana Bloom. Abigail writes about their conversations on movies and books and music and about the stories Alana has to tell about her own young life. She writes about when they laugh together and when they walk together in companionable silence. How the woman, seeing Abigail’s need for normalcy, steps out of her professionalism and becomes a friend.

\---

“I have made arrangements to cook for you again,” Hannibal says one visit. “I know how much you liked it last time.”

Abigail has vague flashbacks to a gourmet meal and mushrooms and family.

“Who’s coming?”

“Whoever you want to come.”

“Can we invite Will? And... Alana Bloom? I like them.”

“If you wish.”

**\---**

**Tonight I went to Hannibal Lecter’s house again for dinner (though this time there was a distinctive lack of mushrooms) and it was a well-received break from the bland food they serve here and the nurses pressuring you to finish your meal so nobody has to diagnose you with an eating disorder.**

**Hannibal was his usual self, calm and reassuring and radiating that air that you can trust him, though I don’t know how misleading that air is. He has kept my secret, and he does care about me, on some level, I guess.**

**Will seemed out of it. I’m worried he’s going downhill, that his profiling job is getting to him more than he wants to admit. Alana’s worried about him, too, you can see by the glances she sends his way. Hannibal is worried but also curious, I think. Curious about what’s happening to Will. It makes me uneasy.**

**Alana was there, of course, on my request, in a gorgeous dark red dress that made her look like a demoness when she was in the shadows. She looked beautiful, but the image was all wrong. Her eyes are too compassionate, her mouth too worried, her smile too caring, for her to be a creature of Hell. She would look more suited in a creamy-gold gown with a pair of bright, white, unfurled wings behind her. Protecting the innocent and smiting down the evil in her righteousness.**

**A guardian angel and a warrior of Heaven all in one.**

\---

Abigail is sick. Her mind feels disconnected and her skin is sweaty and hot and cold. There’s a bin beside her bed that she has vomited in no less than three times now. She drifts in and out of consciousness and is not sure what’s a dream and what’s real.

A warm hand smooths back a few stray strands of hair out of her face and a gentle voice murmurs to her. Abigail turns her head blearily and Alana Bloom is sitting beside her bed. Her other hand is gripping Abigail’s. It’s warm and reassuring and soft.

“Abigail, are you with me? You’re sick.”

Abigail has enough energy to smile widely and let out a contented sigh. “I’m fine,” she hears herself whisper, and drifts back to the hazy, fevered dreams that are pale skin and dark hair and loving words that transition into bruised skin and knotted hair and words dripping with disgust. And oozing, red blood.

\---

She wakes up again and Alana Bloom is sleeping beside her bed, slumped forwards in her chair.

\---

The next time Abigail has a moment of lucidity, Alana is reading to her in low, calming tones that rock her back to sleep and into a dream that isn’t a nightmare.

\---

“Thanks for sitting with me when I was sick. I remember seeing you there a lot. You didn’t have to. You have better things to do than sit by your patient’s bedside. You’re not a medical doctor.”

“Abigail, it was no trouble. I _wanted_ to. You’re not just my patient, you know. I care about you as a friend, too.”

“I care about you, too, Dr Bloom.”

\---

She’s walking the gardens with Will, and they’re discussing things that _aren’t_ therapy and serial killers. He doesn’t pry into her mental state and she doesn’t pry into his. It works. They’re laughing together, a rare sound from them both that combines to give an almost musical effect.

They sit down on a bench. Hannibal and Alana are somewhere around here, probably off discussing psychiatry or Will or Abigail or all three.

“You really like Alana, don’t you?” Will asks suddenly, then blushes. “Sorry, I just... noticed how you smiled when she walked into your room. I’m glad you’re comfortable with her, that she’s a friend to you.”

Abigail smiles awkwardly. “She’s been very good to me. I don’t think I’ll ever begin to be able to thank her enough, to show her how much what she’s done for me means to me.”

Will is looking at her and she avoids his gaze. He uses his abilities to see into serial killer’s minds, but she knows he can see into the mind of anybody if he truly wants to.

And there are things in her head about Alana Bloom she would rather keep hidden.

_\---_

_Alana Bloom’s lips are as soft as they look, warm and gentle against Abigail’s. Abigail presses against them with hungry enthusiasm. A tongue brushes along Abigail’s lips and the girl opens her mouth instantly to let it in. Their tongues intertwine and they taste each other and moan. Their bodies press up against each other and don’t leave even an inch of space between them, each soaking up the heat and contact the other offers. Alana’s hands are on Abigail’s hip and the back of her neck, but they both move to slide down her arms, grip her waist and wrap around it. Abigail gasps when Alana’s leg is shoved between her own._

_“Abigail, you’re going to hurt me,” Alana is moaning, her hands moving again to unbutton Abigail’s shirt. Her words contrast with the desire in her voice as she speaks. “You’re dangerous, a murderer and a killer.” Alana takes off Abigail’s shirt and her own and starts working on Abigail’s jeans. “You helped your father kill those girls. You could have told someone. You could have told the police. But you didn’t, did you? Did you like looking into their eyes, those girls who looked just like you, and knowing they were going to die? Did you kill some of them yourself?” Alana pulls down Abigail’s jeans and runs her hands from the girl’s neck, between her breasts, down her stomach, to her panties. She cups Abigail’s heat, and the lust is seeping out of her voice, being replaced by anger. “Did you carve them open,” Alana asks, shoving her hand past the flimsy fabric and putting two fingers inside Abigail, who moans and clenches around them. Salty tears run down her cheeks and hit her lips. Alana is furious, and her other hand, now wrapped around Abigail’s waist, squeezes painfully hard. “And_ eat _their_ hearts _?”_

\---

“Abigail, are you okay? You haven’t looked me in the eyes all day. Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Really? Are you sure? Are you ill again?”

“No, I’m not sick. Just... just some pretty bad dreams. Don’t worry, Dr Bloom.”

**\---**

**I think I may be falling in love with Alana Bloom. No, not falling in love, but I have affection for her. Isn’t that cruel? I have _affection_ for my psychiatrist, a woman about fifteen years older than me, who, no matter how much of a friendship we have, will always see me as a thing that is broken, and needs to be healed. It’s sick. _I’m_ sick.**

**Sick little Abigail Hobbs, hiding behind a mask of sweet innocence. Her soul is not as bright as you think. It’s tainted and oozing with _sickness_. **

**I wonder if I should tell her she’s wrong about me and my father. I wonder how she would react if I told her that I was the bait, that I befriended those girls on my father’s orders and found out about them. That I knew each of their names, where they lived and what they liked doing. I wonder how Alana Bloom would react if she knew that for each of those girls my father butchered and fed to my family, I had learned about their hobbies and interests and talked with them about music and movies and boys they liked. One of them had a long-term boyfriend who she was going to marry one day. One of them wanted to write screenplays in Hollywood. Another was in the process of writing her first novel, something she had been dreaming about as a little girl.**

**Instead of calling the police when my father’s back was turned, I lured each and every one of them to their deaths and tore apart their lives and dreams and hopes and futures with a few friendly conversation starters and innocent questions.**

**I wonder what would happen if I told Alana Bloom all of that. What would happen if I showed her this journal and she saw my soul for what it is?**

**Would she be horrified and tell Jack Crawford, or would she cling to her denial and naive hope for my innocence.**

**I think, one day, Alana Bloom is going to see me for everything I am. One day I am going to rip open my chest and show her my soul, the tattered, devilish thing it is, and confess to her my sins.**

\---

“Dr Bloom, why are you always so nice to me? I don’t understand. Why did you give me a chance when nobody else wanted to?”

“Because I don’t see a suspect when I look at you, Abigail. At first, I saw a victim, but I know now you’re _so_ much more than that. You’re a bright, beautiful girl who had the world at her feet but the actions of her father pulled that out from under her. I’m giving you a chance, and I’m nice to you, because that’s all I can give you. Sometimes, I’m overcome because I wish I could give you a normal life, and happiness, and friends and a bright future, but I can’t. It kills me, Abigail.”

_\---_

_Alana is straddling Abigail, holding her down with one hand on her shoulder while her other hand pinches and rubs her nipple, sending shockwaves of arousal to Abigail’s core. They’re both naked, and Alana grinds her hips down to make them both moan at the tease of friction. Abigail is soaking wet and Alana is so close, and she wants the woman to take her and consume her._

_“Please,” Abigail gasps, wanting more and more and everything, but is silenced but Alana’s hand leaving her breast and clamping over her mouth. Abigail’s words are muffled while Alana strokes her thumb against the girl’s cheek._

_“No, Abigail,” Alana says. “No speaking. All your words are lies.” Alana moves her other hand to between her own thighs, and Abigail whimpers as the woman starts pleasuring herself. “Your words are lies and poison and manipulation. Why must you do this to me, Abigail?” Alana growls and her fingers pump into herself fast and deep. “Don’t you respect me, Abigail? Don’t you love me?”_

_Alana comes with a sighs, and falls so most of her weight is on Abigail. Their sweaty skin rubs together and their legs intertwine. They roll so they’re both lying on their sides, looking at each other. Alana holds Abigail’s hands between they in an iron grip, like they’re praying. Abigail wants to kiss Alana so badly, but the woman won’t let her._

_“Abigail,” she says imploringly. “You’re a_ monster _. You don’t deserve me.”_

\---

“Would you be averse to talking about your feelings for Alana Bloom?”

Abigail’s head snaps to look at Hannibal, who is currently driving her to his home so he can cook for her and Will. She’s looking forward to the meal. “What?”

Noticing her panicked expression, Hannibal’s lips twitch up into a comforting smile. “I assure you, I do not mean to pry, but I wondered if you would care to have somebody to talk to about how you are feeling. Keeping things to oneself can be... hard, at times.”

Abigail shakes her head. “I don’t... There’s nothing to talk about, really.”

“Really?” He sounds almost amused.

“Really.” She nods firmly, more to herself than to him. Her eyes are trained on the road ahead. She ignors Hannibal’s sideways, knowing glances.

**\---**

**I’ve been listening to a lot of music lately, and reading a lot of poetry. I’ve been trying to find a connection to another person in words. I’ve been trying to find somebody, somewhere, who has at some time lived on this earth, who has recorded something I am familiar with within rhyme and rhythm.**

**I haven’t had much luck.**

**Maybe I can ask Alana if she knows any good poets or artists.**

**\---**

**“The mYsTeRy which binds me STILL:**

~~From the torrent, or the fountain,~~  
From the red cliff of the mountain,  
From the sun that round me rolled  
In its autumn **tint of** _gold_ ,  
From the lightning in the sky  
As it passed me _flying by_ ,  
From the THUNDER and the STORM,  
And the _cloud_ **that took the form**  
(When the rest of _Heaven_ was blue)  
Of a _demon in my view_.””

**\- Edgar Allan _Fucking_ Poe**

\---

“Dr Bloom, did you know you’re actually the most important person in my life?”

“I am? Thank you. And why do you think that is?”

“A lot of reasons. I don’t think it’s terrible appropriate, though. You’re my psychiatrist, and I feel as though you’re my best friend.”

“It may be inappropriate... but I don’t mind. Honestly.”

**\---**

**Alana Bloom, did you know I had a dream last night where you bent me over and finger fucked me from behind while whispering terrible, terrible things in my ear?  I think that says something about how I see myself compared to you.**

**I don’t even deserve these dreams, and I feel sick and ashamed when I wake up with wetness between my thighs, panting and gasping and wishing you were in my bed with me even.**

**Sick little Abigail Hobbs.**

**If only they knew what you thought about at alone at night in the darkness of your room.**

_\---_

_“Help me,” Abigail gasps. Alana is on top of her, rubbing her through her panties, knees planted firmly on either side of the girl’s thighs. “Help me be worthy. I’m not worthy of you.” Abigail is crying; deep, full sobs that wrack her entire body. In her hand, which is thrown to the side, is her hunting knife. She flexes her fingers around it._

_“Help me,” Abigail gasps as Alana mouths at her neck and breasts and teases her with light kisses. She’s gentle this time. Why is she gentle? Abigail doesn’t deserve the respect she is being given._

_“I am evil,” Abigail moans when two fingers slide into her. She clenches around them and bucks her hips in a vain attempt to get more friction. Her arm moves on its own accord and she runs the hunting knife along Alana’s lips, half-closed eye-lids, cheekbones. She leaves a small, thin trail of blood droplets in her wake. She moves the knife down to Alana’s neck, marks her lover in swirls and patterns of red. She trails the knife along Alana’s collarbone and down to her breasts, between then, down her stomach, to the apex of her thighs..._

_And suddenly she draws back starts carving her way to Alana’s heart._

_The woman does not stop her ministrations, not as the knife slices her open and not as her blood pours onto Abigail like a baptism. Abigail flips them over and carves and saws and cuts until she is pulling the warm, bloody, beating organs out of Alana’s chest._

_“Abigail,” Alana says in a gasp. “What’s wrong with you?”_

_Abigail shakes her head, **she doesn’t know** , and raises Alana’s beautiful heart to her lips to kiss it._

_She takes a bite, and savours the sweetness of the flesh and the warmth of the blood._

_Alana continues to fuck her while Abigail eats her heart, and on the last bite, Abigail comes._

_She hands Alana the previously discarded knife._

_“Now,” she whispers. “You take mine.”_

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Abigail butchers is "Alone" by Edgar Allan Poe.  
> I'm sorry if this was terrible.


End file.
